


don't @ me

by sevenimpossiblethings



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Social Media AU, almost identity porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 03:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14991980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenimpossiblethings/pseuds/sevenimpossiblethings
Summary: Grantaire is an anonymous Instagram Boyfriend™. Then his boyfriend dumps him. Someone on the Internet decides to give credit where credit’s due.





	don't @ me

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a not-fic and then d/evolved into an actual fic. Wait for it. 
> 
> I have a very limited knowledge of how Instagram partnerships actually work. #minimalresearch 
> 
> CW: There is a casual, joking reference to stalking. Nobody is actually stalked in this fic. 
> 
> Finally, if you are subscribed to me, notice that SNCF strikes are mentioned in two of my Les Mis fics, and think I’m being lazy with my French cultural references, well, I have news for you about the SNCF.

Grantaire starts out, he thinks, as just a boyfriend. 

His boyfriend, like most attractive people, has an Instagram account. Grantaire, like most people in their final year of art school, wants to take pictures for something other than his photography capstone. 

Also, Grantaire is still a bit starry-eyed that someone _that_ attractive would ever want to date him. Like, he knows he has his good points, exactly one good angle, whatever. But his boyfriend, Collin, is nothing but good angles. 

Grantaire has rarely taken things to their full logical conclusions before, but he takes a lot of pictures of Collin when they’re out together, dinners and beach days, and when he gives them to Collin to post, Collin includes things like “photo by my patient boyfriend” in the caption. It’s nice.

They graduate. Grantaire is one part scrambling to make it as a freelancer, one part continuous internal party because, _hey look, a relationship he managed not to fuck up!_ He doesn’t know how he’s tricked Collin into staying with him for this long, but he has zero complaints. Collin’s Instagram catches the attention of a local scout, and he gets a couple of small modeling gigs, but mostly Collin DJs and does something mysterious with finance that never seems to take up very much time. Again: zero complaints. 

Then there’s the bridge shot. Grantaire spends ages getting it right, and maybe Collin complains a little about the cold, but the light is perfect and he can get the lines of the bridge just so and Collin looks like the hottest, most dapper dude on either side of the Atlantic.

And it gets big. Collin gets big. It helps that he has a year’s worth of solid, steadily more popular posts in his back catalog, all neatly tagged with the designer brands Collin paid for out-of-pocket.

Brands start contacting Collin, small brands but then pretty quickly bigger ones, and Collin wheedles Grantaire into ditching his boxing class some weeks, or finishing his web design work after sunset, so they can grab the light. It’s fine, it’s exciting, Grantaire’s so proud of his boyfriend, proud to be the one standing behind the camera, proud to see all the good things Collin has coming his way. He helps Collin redesign his website, and there’s a whole fancy page about where to send brand inquiries and a description of his ethics and aesthetic.

It’s a little thing, but Collin also stops mentioning who’s taking the pictures.

“It’s just not really professional,” he says, when Grantaire tries to joke about it one day. “Other people at my level have professional photographers, you know? I look like some twenty-year-old girl if I say it’s my boyfriend.” 

Grantaire swallows down both of his protests—namely, what’s up with the casual misogyny, and also, Grantaire _is_ a professional photographer, he has his own damn website—and agrees. Plus, Collin shares some of his haul with Grantaire sometimes, stuff where the sizing doesn’t matter so much, mostly accessories but once a bomb-ass jacket that was intentionally, artistically big on Collin and fits Grantaire like a glove. So it’s not like Grantaire isn’t being compensated for the hours he spends scouting locations and editing and all that.

That is definitely something no one warns you about Instagram fame: it actually requires time and effort and all that shit. They stop going on dates, pretty much. The only time they show up at restaurants is if there’s a nice brick or stucco exterior wall that would go well with Collin’s latest look. So maybe Grantaire started out as just a boyfriend, but by this time, he’s definitely an Instagram Boyfriend™. 

Other definite facts: Grantaire has been dropping the ball on his friends lately, he knows it. It’s all he can do to handle Collin’s photography and keep his own lights on. He’s pretty sure his friends have joined some new activist group, but he honest to god does not have an evening to spare to listen to idealists rage about capitalism.

And then… he does. The breakup conversation goes something like, “Look, Grantaire, it’s been fun, but I think we both know we’re not really a long-term thing, so let’s just end it now before we get too deep, yeah?” 

Grantaire hasn’t exactly been fantasizing about his white dress or anything, but it’s not like. Well. It’s not like his feelings haven’t been in play at all. He says “oh” and blinks a few times, because he’s mostly in shock, he thought he would have some warning at least, you know? So if he’s angry or sad or anything else it’s buried way, way deep and he doesn’t even know yet, so just, “oh.” 

Collin smiles, bracingly, and asks if they’re still on to shoot on Saturday.

Grantaire is this close to saying _yes_. He should say yes, right? He agreed to this. He can’t back out of commitments now, he was a flake the first two years of university and he’s not going back to that, he hated himself then, his friends couldn’t stand him, the fact that Joly walked him to his first six therapy appointments is a goddamn miracle for which Grantaire is never going to be able to repay the universe—but some ghost of Eponine present takes over his brain at this point, and he manages to stutter something about it being better to take a break from all contact for a while. To keep the boundaries clear.

He doesn’t remember much of the weekend, to be honest. He sits around his apartment in a daze. He has no idea what to do with himself. There are no pictures to be planned, no clouds to scrupulously watch for signs of rain. He used to… he’s pretty sure there used to be other things he did.

He texts Eponine eventually (“he broke up with me. kind of an empty sock puppet right now?”).

She shows up and glares at him for what feels like a full five minutes before: “Take my picture,” she demands. 

“What?” says Grantaire, weary, startled. 

“Take my picture,” she repeats. 

“Oh, yeah. I mean. Sure,” he says, and gets up, opens the curtains to let in the natural light, gathers his things to set up.

She’s quiet for a minute, then says, “Just take the damn picture, R.” 

“But you want—” 

“I want you to take a picture of me.” She props her hands on her hips. 

He takes the picture. It’s—the lighting is a little off, and there’s some of his apartment clutter in the corners Grantaire should crop, but she looks fierce. Grantaire asks her how he should give it to her—email, Dropbox, text if she’s okay with a low-quality copy, he has a million flash drives around here somewhere… 

“I don’t want it,” she says, almost a snap. 

“But—” 

“I want you to post it on your own damn Instagram account, okay?”

It’s not that he’s been neglecting his own account, exactly, he’s not that dumb, he knows it’s an important professional tool for idiots like him who break out in hives when they think of getting real jobs—but maybe Eponine has a point. He hasn’t been as active as he used to be.

He posts the picture. He captions it, “My friend @epoverit telling the camera like it is. Photo by me.”

“That’s a start,” she says, wrapping her arms around him as he put his phone down. “Now let’s go get some ice cream.”

They get ice cream, a lot of it. And then Grantaire puts his head down and gets to work. He starts a 20-hour-a-week contract with a university, working on graphics for their online courses. He still hustles for about ten hours a week of web design, which he likes less, and he could live on those two combined, pretty much, but he needs new boxing gloves and even super indie bands at super indie bars have cover charges, so he fills in the rest of his budget with photography. Wedding photography is truly the worst—don’t let anyone fool you—so he does a lot of other family photos; he’s pretty good at getting toddler siblings to stop fighting for twenty seconds at a time. He ends up getting a steady stream of real estate photography, too, not to mention a few one-offs for some of the bigger non-profit organizations in the area that need candid shots to stick into their annual reports.

Bahorel, who’s forgiven him for missing most of their sparring sessions for… months, shit, mentions that he’s been going to the activism group Eponine pretends she isn’t part of, the One-Two-Threes or whatever it’s called. 

“I’m just trying to get my own shit in order, man,” Grantaire tells him. “You think the mayor cares about my thoughts on park maintenance?” 

Bahorel just shakes his head and they start the next round.

So that’s. All good. He’s been updating his Instagram more, too, mostly still lifes and stuff, no people after Eponine’s weird little post-break-up stunt. And… maybe he’s been keeping an eye on Collin’s account. Grantaire hadn’t unfollowed him—it was a… friendly breakup, right? Something? He didn’t want Collin to know he’d thought about him enough to bother to unfollow him.

A funny thing happens, about two months in. Two months after? Collin always liked to build a long lead time in for his brands, and brands liked sending out their stuff in advance, knowing Collin would post it at exactly the right moment for tweed trousers or whatever. And after about two months, Collin runs out of Grantaire’s backlog, even the no-brand-name-clothes “candids” that are supposed to assure his followers he isn’t entirely a #sponsored blog. Grantaire is certain that Collin has run out of Grantaire’s material, not just because he doesn’t recognize the outfit or the picture or the style of photography (seriously, what’s _with_ that angle?), but because Collin tags the photographer.

 _Well_ , Grantaire thinks, and doesn’t think any further. He blocks Collin across all social media, deletes his number from his phone, and gets a cat. No crisis here, just rescue kitten snuggles, you know?

Three weeks later, Grantaire is still dodging Bahorel’s invitations to the Do-Re-Mi do-gooder group, which sounds like it’s led by someone about ten levels too intense for Grantaire’s taste, and otherwise filling his time with making Instagram Stories of Bast. He still thinks Instagram Stories are a crime against humanity, but in his defense, his cat is very cute. Joly never seems to mind, anyway, and hey, a viewership of one is fine by him. 

He’s in the middle of filming—trying to film, Bast is being uncooperative, whatever, her tail is equally adorable—when he gets a call from an unknown number. He mostly works via email, but it could be someone new from the university he needs to coordinate with, so—

It’s not a client. It’s Roger, i.e. Collin’s best friend, who never let Grantaire forget that Collin had known him longer. Like, okay, dude. Dicks before dick, fine, but a limit on the animosity would have been nice. 

“Look,” says Roger, and Grantaire sits down on the rug and wonders if Bast could helpfully develop murderous impulses within the next ten seconds. “It was whatever for the first couple of weeks, it’s a change, people have to get used to it, I get it. But this is too much, you know? Call him off.”

“I have… no idea what you’re talking about,” Grantaire says. It’s such a thrill to be telling the truth about his ignorance to Roger, it may come across as smug. Not his fault.

“Riiight. I’m supposed to believe you have nothing to do with all those comments, people saying the photography’s gone to shit, bring back the old photographer, Collin’s pictures used to have substance and symbolism and some shit, like that _matters_ on Instagram?”

“Well,” starts Grantaire, because his photos _did_ have substance and symbolism, and maybe it did matter on Instagram, at least a little, because it was that bridge picture that gave Collin his big break, wasn’t it?

“Fine, he dumped you, you wanted a little revenge, you’re a real artsy photographer—” Roger continues to rant.

“Dude,” Grantaire interrupts. “I don’t know about any of these comments. I blocked Collin, you know? I don’t see that stuff. And… I’m guessing you know that, because otherwise Collin would have just DM’d me or something.”

There’s a brief pause. “Well, did you make a post telling people to—”

“No, dude, no. It’s like, clouds and cat pics all the way down on my Instagram these days. Look it up. Go all the way back, you’ll see, there’s nothing. And, no, I haven’t deleted some call to action, what the fuck, even.”

“Okay. Well. Like I said before, those comments are whatever, they’ll get used to it. But you have to call off @libertyxjustice.”

“Who?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I genuinely–”

“Go to Collin’s page. Click on any picture of his from when you two were together.”

Grantaire fumbles for his laptop, opens an Incognito browser in Chrome, and navigates to Collin’s Instagram profile, scrolling for a second before he gets to a picture he took about four months ago, Collin leaning against a fence in front of some abandoned railroad tracks. All the most recent comments are the same: “This photo was taken by @r_like_rithmetic.”

“I don’t… _what_ ,” says Grantaire, not really to Roger, but kind of into the phone all the same. 

He clicks through a few more pictures: same thing. _This photo was taken by @r_like_rithmetic_. He turned off notifications a month or so ago, adding a note in his bio to fill out the form on his website for professional inquiries, so no questions there about how he missed this, but… _what_.

“This account started doing it a few days ago, going back to the very beginning, I’m talking photos from _two years ago_ , like a real creep, and commenting all the ones you’d obviously taken. And then other people started catching on, it’s a whole THING now.” Grantaire hears THING in all-caps. “Some fashion blogger reached out to Collin today asking for a _comment_.”

“And what did Collin say?”

“Well, he hasn’t said anything yet, you asshole,” says Roger, peevish.

“Okay, well, I don’t control other people on the Internet, I don’t know this guy…”

“Are you one hundred percent sure on that? I need you to be sure,” says Roger.

Grantaire stops at a photo at random and scrolls through the comments until he comes across the offending handle: @libertyxjustice. He clicks, but only has time for a quick glance at the profile pic—some protest sign, helpful—before Bast decides to interest herself in the proceedings at last and launches herself across the keyboard, knocking his laptop askew.

 _Okay, okay,_ he thinks. _Enough with the ex’s Insta, got it, girl_.

“Sorry,” he tells Roger. “No idea.”

“You’ve got to do something,” says Roger. “Tell people to back off. Tell this ‘justice’ person to drop it. You were Collin’s boyfriend, that’s how these things work.”

Grantaire sits with those words for a few seconds, picturing them in his mind, lighting them and adjusting the aperture.

“You know,” Grantaire says, “once Instagram started to be Collin’s real job, I don’t actually think that’s how these things work. So. I’m not going to tell anyone what they can or can’t comment on somebody else’s posts. There’s actual abuse on the Internet to think about, you know? Pretty sure this doesn’t qualify under the terms and conditions.”

“Fuck you, man. This could really hurt his career,” says Roger.

“Gee,” says Grantaire. “I wonder what taking uncredited photos for an Instagram model did for _my_ career.”

He hangs up on Roger.

Then he texts Bahorel and Joly’s merry triad: _anybody up for a drink or six?_

As it turns out, everybody is.

Grantaire wakes up on Saturday morning with a pounding headache, a dry mouth, and a desperate wish that he’d thought to close the blinds before going out the night before.

Forethought has never really been his forté though.

He groans and rolls over onto his side, pulling the blanket up over his head. If he could just slip back into oblivion for a bit…

His bladder has other ideas.

With slow, careful movements, he makes his way to the bathroom. He pisses, brushes his teeth, and downs three glasses of water before collapsing back into bed. It’s only then that he remembers having moved his bottle of Advil into the kitchen.

He’s definitely not walking all the way to the kitchen now that he’s back in bed.

That forethought thing again.

Grantaire fumbles for his phone, which is lying facedown on the floor, presumably where he dropped it the night before.

He has gotten better about the drunk-texting thing, he really has.

He’s actually gotten way better about the whole _getting drunk_ thing in general, but. Well. Last night was a special exception.

There’s a text from Bahorel, asking if he got in okay. ( _Hungover as fuck_ , he replies _, what else is new_.)

There’s a text from Joly that consists entirely of emojis, mostly of fruit and vegetables and water bottles. ( _Three glasses in already, doc._ )

There’s also a new message from a number Grantaire doesn’t recognize—several messages, in fact.

_Oh shit_ , he thinks, as he begins to read. And then: _what the hell?_

 **06 – xx – xx – xx – xx**  
Hello, friend! I think you must have the wrong number, because I’ve never had a boyfriend before (so I can’t be your ex). (I’ve also never been in any sort of quasi-near-relationship that could be construed as boyfriends due to miscommunication and so forth, so please understand this is not your ex trying to pretend he isn’t your ex because you were never really together, which would be a disrespectful thing for him/anyone to do.)  


Grantaire is tempted to start counting words, because who _texts_ like that, but that’s only the first block of text. There’s more.

 **06 – xx – xx – xx – xx**  
I’m sorry to hear that your ex is being shitty, though.  
I obviously don’t know the context/details, but it sounds like something is happening publicly/professionally, and I wish you the best. Sincerely, a wrong number. 

And then the next four messages are just cute animal gifs: a dog, a rabbit, a hedgehog, and… a cat. Who is Bast.

Grantaire glances again at the number, notes that it’s just two digits off from Collin’s—mystery solved, thanks drunk memory slash drunk typing—and replies reflexively.

 **Grantaire** :  
Did you just send me a supportive gif featuring my own cat

He grimaces after he hits send. Whoever he texted is being super nice about Grantaire’s three a.m. drunk texting spree.

Thank god he hadn’t actually managed to reach Collin, you know? Collin wouldn’t have sent him _seven_ supportive text messages. Collin would have sent him one angry, annoyed message and then sent screenshots to his friends.

Asshole.

Grantaire scrolls back up through the received text messages, keeps going. And, yep, there they are: 

**Grantaire:**  
you could have found a way to contact me yourself you bastard  
maybe through the contact page on my website  
you know the one thats all nice because I designed it myself  
kind of like someone elses website whose could that be  
I’m over the fact that you were a shitty boyfriend but maybe you could try not being a shitty ex

At least his drunk self has evolved to standing up for himself? That’s got to count as some sort of progress.

Instead of analyzing that further, Grantaire (slowly) heads into the kitchen, where he sticks bread in the toaster and tries not to trip over Bast, who is apparently in a mood where she wants to be _around_ but definitely does not want to be properly petted.

He should probably text his wrong number again, this time with a real apology.

 **Grantaire** :  
Hey, A Wrong Number. Sorry for the middle-of-the-night drunk texts. And thanks for the support.

His toast pops up. He manages to butter the first slice without stabbing himself and/or Bast – who hasn’t learned to stay off the counters, bless her kitty heart – when his phone buzzes with another text.

**06 - xx - xx- xx- xx:**  
No apologies necessary. It sounds like you were taken advantage of by a shitty person, that’s all.  
And it’s Enjolras, by the way.

Grantaire stares down at his phone, which has become way more interesting than his toast.

He _knows_ that name.

Granted, there could be more than one person named Enjolras with a French cell phone number, but how many of them would send a stranger an earnest message about the definition of “boyfriend,” which, according to everything he’s heard from Bahorel about the leader of We’re All Fucked 101, is definitely his style. 

**Grantaire** :  
Sorry if this is weird, but you don’t happen to be Bahorel’s avenging angel activist friend, do you?

**06 - xx - xx- xx- xx:**  
I wouldn’t use the term avenging angel but… that’s probably me.  
Wait.  
You’re his artist friend with the awful boyfriend.  
Who I guess is now the awful ex-boyfriend.

Oh god. Bahorel has _talked_ about him to this guy. Bahorel has ranted about Collin’s dickishness to Grantaire’s wrong number stranger.

**Grantaire:**  
That’s me. Grantaire.

Grantaire assumes they’re doomed to at least an acquaintanceship at this point and adds Enjolras’s number into his contacts. It’s a pretty good trade.

**Avenging Angel Activist:**  
Hang on. I’m just now seeing your first reply this morning… that’s really your cat? You’re r_like_rithmetic?

Grantaire tucks his phone under his chin, grabs his plate in one hand, and reaches into the fridge for the orange juice with the other. He lives alone, he can drink out of the carton, it’s fine.

Once he’s dumped everything on the table, he rereads Enjolras’s message. 

**Grantaire** :  
Uh, yeah. I’m assuming Bahorel bullied you into following me on Insta about the same time he told you about my shit bf/ex?

Enjolras replies immediately, like he was waiting on Grantaire’s message. It’s… okay, pretty gratifying. It’s been a while since he’s had someone’s attention, even for pitying, your-ex-is-a-jerk reasons. (Bast’s attention doesn’t count, because she always lets you know she’s keeping half an eye and one full ear out for a bird or a patch of sunlight that’s more interesting than you are.)

 **Avenging Angel Activist** :  
No, Bahorel never told me about it.  
I’ve actually been following you since you did those museum pictures—they’re really good.  
All of your work is incredible.

When he woke up this morning, Grantaire figured he was in for a hell of a hangover and maybe, if he was very lucky, a small amount of soft sympathy purrs from Bast. Sometimes the real friends are the drunk texts we sent along the way, who knew?

He’s in the middle of deciding whether tacking on a blushing emoji to his “thanks” is appropriate when Enjolras texts again.

 **Avenging Angel Activist** :  
I actually have a confession to make.  
I’m libertyxjustice.  
And… I’m realizing that the fight (?) you had with someone who was not your ex yesterday is probably because of what I’ve been posting on his pictures.  
I probably should have asked you first before wading in there myself.  
I just saw people talking about how you’d stopped doing Collin’s pictures, realized you’d never gotten the credit for them in the first place, and… ran with it.  
I really do apologize for any difficulties this caused you.

Grantaire buries his still-slightly-aching head in his arms and laughs.

Of fucking _course_ the leader of How to Save the World in 832 Steps is his wrong number and, very literally, his Instagram avenger.

 **Grantaire** :  
Bahorel did not share this info with me either. Somehow I’m not surprised? lol

He hesitates, then keeps typing.

 **Grantaire** :  
And honestly, thanks.  
It means a lot that a stranger would do that for me, especially since they’re just like, pictures of Collin looking broody

 **Avenging Angel Activist** :  
You don’t honestly believe that, do you? Those pictures are real art—and real work.

Bast yowls at a leaf near the door that must have stuck to Grantaire’s shoes last night.

“Kitty,” Grantaire says, “it is too early for that. You know what it’s also too early for?”

More yowling. Luckily his neighbor’s cat is twice as crotchety and three times as loud.

“Self-worth talks via text. The fuck,” he adds, looking down at his phone again.

Grantaire sends his thanks + blushing emoji text, then heads for Instagram. If Enjolras has been following him for _months_ , he needs to catch up quickly.

His profile pic, now that Grantaire has the chance to look at it properly, is a sign that reads I’M PAST PATIENTLY WAITING. Grantaire snorts at that, because he’s already sure that Enjolras has never waited for anything patiently in his life.

His bio is equally illuminating: Enjolras | he/him/his | human rights lawyer | president of Les Amis de l’ABC | too gay to drive not gay enough for brunch

Smirking, Grantaire navigates back to their texts.

 **Grantaire** :  
What do you have against brunch? ;)

Enjolras’s pictures, of course, are where the real gold is. Sure, there are lots of blurry photos from protests, lots of exhortations to attend this rally or sign that petition, but there’s also a decent number selfies. Thanks to Grantaire’s prior acquaintanceship with, apparently, half the members of the Radical Kindergartners, it’s pretty easy to figure out that Enjolras is the smoking hot blond with, swear to god, the prettiest blue eyes Grantaire has ever seen. And the pictures aren’t even that good. Grantaire can’t imagine what seeing them in real life would be like. 

**Avenging Angel Activist** :  
I would protest at your Instagram stalking, but I suppose it’s only fair. And that particular line in my bio is thanks to my friend Courfeyrac – not sure if you know him?

 **Grantaire** :  
Nope, but now I definitely need to. 

Four months ago, he would have deliberated for a half-hour over whether he could send such a presumptuous text – and definitely would have deleted without sending. But he doesn’t think twice about sending this one.

 **Avenging Angel Activist** :  
Meetings are Fridays at 20h00, at the Musain.  
… but a few of us, Courf included, are actually going to that street music festival in the IVième tomorrow, if you’d like to join us?  
No pressure, of course.

“Papa’s ditching you for a boy tomorrow,” Grantaire tells Bast, who flicks her tail from her perch on the windowsill and otherwise ignores this pronouncement.

He hasn’t done the research, but he’s kind of assuming cats are like plants and need to be talked to. Bast doesn’t care if their lopsided conversations are mostly complaints about guys, invoicing, or the never-fucking-ending SNCF strikes, right? 

**Grantaire** :  
Sounds cool  
I think Musichetta mentioned it the other day, I forgot about it until now 

**Avenging Angel Activist** :  
Great!  
One more confession…

Grantaire runs his fingers through his hair. “I haven’t even met him yet and he’s already going to be the death of me,” he complains.

 **Grantaire** :  
Shoot.

 **Avenging Angel Activist** :  
Okay, so you already know that I’ve been following you on Instagram for a while and think your art is phenomenal. You don’t have any pictures of yourself on there, but… now that I know you’re Grantaire, I know what you look like?  
Bahorel didn’t make the connection for me between your Instagram profile and his artist friend. That said: I think you show up in his Facebook pictures sometimes.  
Not I think.  
You do. He tags you.  
You’re really cute.  
Oh god.  
I’m going to stop talking now.  
Texting.  
I just thought you should know before tomorrow, in the interest of full disclosure.  
I’m sorry if that’s weird. Again.

Grantaire’s shock has escalated with every text, and he scrambles to reply.

 **Grantaire** :  
No, no!  
No apologies necessary  
You like my art and you think I’m cute? Like… shit, man. Why would you apologize for saying that

 **Avenging Angel Activist** :  
Because it makes me look like this multi-level stalker??

 **Grantaire** :  
Is it dumb if I say that’s honestly a little refreshing?  
I could have used a little more appreciative stalking from my ex

 **Avenging Angel Activist** :  
Can I tell you what I told Bahorel when he told me about your gallery opening?

“Death, I’m telling you,” Grantaire groans, to a very unsympathetic Bast.

 **Grantaire** :  
Once I’ve recovered from the fact that you KNOW about what happened / didn’t happen at that event… sure

 **Avenging Angel Activist** :  
I’ll wait. 

“And he’s a dork,” Grantaire says, but he doesn’t look away from his phone to see if Bast is listening. “You don’t care, do you?” 

**Grantaire** :  
I was kidding. Feel free to say whatever, including, “hey R you dummy, maybe you should have ditched the guy who flaked out on the most important event of your career to date instead of waiting for him to break up with you”

 **Avenging Angel Activist** :  
You deserve someone who will come to your gallery openings (of which there will be many in the future, I am sure) – on time and in appropriate clothing and with flowers or another agreed-upon gesture of pride and affection, if you don’t like flowers.  
And for the record, I still think that’s true, and I don’t think you’re dumb. I think you’re a generous partner and you got taken advantage of. That’s not your fault.

The thing is, Grantaire – he’s been trying not to look at it that way. He’s been carefully _not_ doing all the math of the time and effort and _ideas_ he put into Collin’s photos, time and effort and ideas he’ll never get back. Because when he does think about it, think about even a day’s worth of all that investment, he thinks, _you fucking idiot_.

And here’s Enjolras, who’s never met him but somehow knows him from all angles nonetheless, telling him it’s not his fault. It’s not that Eponine or Joly never told him that, but it’s different, somehow, from this outside perspective. He’s held Eponine’s hair back so she could puke in a slightly more sanitary way, he gets a free pass on a dumb thing once a year from her. 

**Grantaire** :  
Thank you. Really.  
So… tomorrow?

 **Avenging Angel Activist** :  
Tomorrow.  
I’m really looking forward to meeting you.

Grantaire bites his lip. Does he dare…?

 **Grantaire** :  
Might be too soon to say, but: I’m hoping you’ll decide you’re gay enough for brunch sometime

 **Avenging Angel Activist** :  
I could probably be convinced. :)

Six months later, Grantaire’s scrolling through his own Instagram posts on his phone while he waits for his analytics to load on his computer. So he’s got a little bit of a narcissistic streak – what artist doesn’t?

If his year-ago self could see his latest posts, he’d accuse his current self of like, maybe not a personality change, but definitely hallucinogenic drugs and a whole lot of wishful thinking.

There are the selfies, for one, which Grantaire never used to post, back when he was Collin’s chubby, awkward, invisible boyfriend. There are also pictures of crowds and protest signs, at embarrassingly regular intervals. (Embarrassingly regular not for Grantaire, but for the world. Get your shit together, people.)

Then there are the fashion spreads. In the wake of “ _This photo was taken by @r_like_rithmetic_ ”-gate, he started getting messages, first from fashion bloggers, then from legit magazines who wanted to work with him. And pay him. It’s pretty weird, to be honest, but he gets an actual budget for props and location shoots and whatnot. Models who’ve been told they’ll never land a cover often get screwed over when they do book one, and Grantaire likes nothing more than to give them the photo shoot of their dreams. It helps, of course, to work with the right people: the makeup artists who actually have products for dark skin, stylists whose idea of plus-size fashion is bigger than “no horizontal stripes.” There’s a whole world of professionals he never would have met, taking anonymous pictures for Collin.

Grantaire has stopped doing web design, except for occasional pro bono work for tiny non-profits that can barely afford to breathe, much less pay for a functional website where refugees or queer teens can find the services they provide. 

Most people assume his boyfriend roped him into his volunteer website work, but Enjolras has never once suggested that he lend out his skills for free, not even for a good cause. Enjolras even kept using his own, frankly terrible protests pictures on the ABC’s official Insta page until Grantaire put his foot down three months in. _I’m there anyway_ , Grantaire argued. _I do initial edits on a bunch for my Instagram already. Use some of the ones I don’t post, I’ll be paid in the lack of artistic pain I experience looking at my feed, swear to god._

Grantaire’s current profile picture is of Bast’s paw next to a cool piece of tile Grantaire found at a rummage sale.

Enjolras’s is a picture of the two of them, Enjolras pressing a kiss to Grantaire’s cheek. Instagram doesn’t let you caption your profile picture, so Enjolras modified his bio instead: Enjolras | he/him/his | human rights lawyer | president of Les Amis de l’ABC | profile picture by the amazing @r_like_rithmetic | gay enough for brunch as long as it’s with my boyfriend.

And Collin? Well. Life is not a children’s picture book, so Collin still has endorsement deals with enough brands to keep him in designer sunglasses and the occasional custom suit.

Grantaire can’t bring himself to care. He has an avenging angel activist on his side. He knows he’s coming out ahead.

Before he can dig into his analytics—and who knew an art career would require so much _math_ —his phone chimes with a text from Enjolras. He knows it’s Enjolras because he set the text notification as a line from _La Marseillaise_. 

The text contains a picture of Grantaire from two nights before, when he stayed over at Enjolras’s apartment. He’s not doing anything interesting in the image, just sitting on the kitchen counter, laughing because they’d been discussing these guys who are trying to be the French answer to _Lovett or Leave It_ , and Enjolras had said, “Hold that thought” and taken a picture before Grantaire could even blink. 

Now, the follow-up texts start arriving before Grantaire can think, _why_? 

**Avenging Angel Activist BF** :  
You’re always taking pictures of other people, I wanted you to have a photo of yourself you didn’t have to take.  
Even though I’m sure all my fundamentals are wrong in this.  
Just because I thought you looked beautiful.  
And there was something right about the moment.  
I know being with me isn’t always laughing in my kitchen, but I’m so glad you stick around until we get to those parts. 

Sometimes Enjolras does these things—sends an earnest text, shows up at Grantaire’s apartment after a long shoot with sparkling pear juice and cat-friendly flowers—and Grantaire is floored, all over again. Not that Enjolras is a literal angel but… he tries, so hard. Enjolras is not afraid to let you see him try. 

Grantaire takes a selfie. He’s still blushing, and he hasn’t combed his hair today—and he knows Enjolras won’t care. He knows Enjolras will love it. 

Instead of texting it to Enjolras, though, he posts it to Instagram. 

**@r_like_rithmetic** : My boyfriend is ridiculous. Red cheeks courtesy of @libertyxjustice. 

The first comment comes in less than a minute later. 

**@libertyxjustice** : Photo by R <3 


End file.
